


end of the line

by verity



Series: tween wolf [19]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coffee Shops, Exploration, First Meetings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-04-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:13:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no point in sitting around and moping over what she can't change. Allison gives herself five minutes to pull it together before she gets the map out of the glove compartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	end of the line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tiac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiac/gifts).



> I forgot to put that yesterday (Thursday)'s installment was part of tween wolf when I posted it, so in case you're subscribed to the series and didn't get a notification, there's [let it pass](http://archiveofourown.org/works/774040), from Stiles's POV. :)

Allison doesn't leave anything behind except her sleeping bag, which she kicks under the bed before vaulting out the window.

Which is probably overkill. Oh well.

Her car's two blocks over, and Allison runs the whole way with her sneakers dangling from her fingers, socks shoved down into the toes. Putting them on would have been wasted time. She's run farther barefoot on worse terrain; her feet are barely dirty by the time she slides into the driver's seat.

When she turns the keys in the ignition, the time lights up in precise white numbers: 12:45 AM. So that's four hours, maybe, that she'd spent curled up on Stiles's floor.

Allison feels rested, though. It's the best sleep she's had in weeks.

—

Stiles said he'd text her, but Allison doesn't have a phone—whatever number he has is years out of date. It's not worth the risk to double back and see if Laura's gone, so she's on her own with nine hours to kill before she meets up with Lydia at Starbucks.

Allison takes the long way out of Stiles's neighborhood, winding past the elementary school Stiles and Scott went to and a playground she doesn't remember from when she lived here. Eventually the street dumps her out onto the state road that runs between Beacon Hills and Grass Valley, where houses fade into used car dealerships and lumber stores. She parks behind a strip mall right before she crosses over the county line, its stores shuttered, lights dimmed. There's no visibility from the road if she pulls up between dumpsters. The alley isn't a good place to hunker down for the night, but it'll do for the moment.

When Stiles told her to leave, that Laura was coming—it all happened so fast, Allison didn't take time to evaluate the situation, just covered her tracks as best she could and peaced out. She didn't ask questions: why Laura, why here, why now. So now she's missing data, without shelter, and she's left a scent trail behind her, however faint. Allison leans forward until her forehead hits the steering wheel.

It was easy to come here, to keep moving, not to think beyond, _Hale territory_. This was the only place she could go. Scott and Stiles don't know anything that's happened since she left here: they trust her. On their sufferance, she might be able to convince Laura to hear her out, at least.

Allison doesn't know what she could say to persuade her.

—

"Both of us," she said to her dad. They were parked inside an abandoned barn off the highway, resting for the night. The car was an old Plymouth that Dad had jacked off the street in Pittsburgh; it didn't have GPS, unlike the Acura. "Why not just me?"

Dad looked over at her. "I could still have children. That's how they do it, when they end a line."

—

There's no point in sitting around and moping over what she can't change. Allison gives herself five minutes to pull it together before she gets the map out of the glove compartment. She printed it off Google Maps at a copy shop in Chicago, taped it together and folded it up, memorized the streets she'd never paid any attention to when she lived in Beacon Hills.

She spends two hours tracing the main arteries of the city, kills another two in Wal-Mart, one shopping and another reading a romance novel in the car. After that, she drifts back toward the center of town, finds a Panera that opens at 6, and gets ready to settle in for a few hours with her laptop.

The guy at the counter is cute, if you like them pale and floppy-haired; Allison hasn't spent a lot of time thinking about what she likes. She doesn't bother to look at the menu before ordering. "I'll have a large mocha and a plain bagel with cream cheese, light if you have it," she says, pasting on a smile.

"Can do," the guy says, tapping her order into the screen in front of him. He looks up after a moment and smiles back. "Hey, you look kind of familiar. Do I know you from somewhere?"

Allison shakes her head. "I don't think so," she says. "I just moved here."

"Welcome to Beacon Hills, then," he says. "I'm Matt."

—

All that's in her inbox is spam and promotions, so Allison spends most of her time catching up on the news and updating one of her Facebook accounts to look like someone Lydia Martin would be friends with. Lydia's profile is private, but Allison can see a few of her pictures; she recognizes her now, just as fashionably dressed and perfectly coiffed as she was in middle school. She's just finished up her sophomore year at Beacon Hills High School, like Scott and Stiles. Allison hasn't bothered to get a GED.

Lydia's fashionably late, too, making Allison wait at their table while she orders a skinny vanilla whatever and flirts with the barista. "You had such nice hair," she says, sitting down and crossing her legs delicately at the ankle. "It's a pity. I think we might be able to salvage it."

"Excuse me?" Allison says.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
